


Runic/Alchemic

by Suzume



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga, Suikoden III
Genre: Crossover, First Meetings, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-10
Updated: 2010-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-13 04:05:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzume/pseuds/Suzume
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once in a tea shop, once in the mess tent.<br/>Two ways Solf J. Kimblee and Sarah might have met.<br/>A pair of crossover fics written expressly for A Ficathon Walks Into A Bar</p>
            </blockquote>





	Runic/Alchemic

**In Harmonia, a Man of Fire...**

 

            "I'm sorry, Sarah.  I can't go to meet the man.  I have to attend this meeting if I'm going to properly keep up appearances in front of Sasarai and Tjasse and the rest," Luc apologized to her.  He wouldn't say so openly, but the stress of the two-sided situation he found himself in was beginning to get to him.  He was used to showing his emotions openly.  If he was irritated, he said so.  If he was bored, he yawned.  But here in Harmonia, not only did he have to exercise the level of tact generally expected of a high-ranking clergyman, but he had to hide all signs of his ulterior motives, anti-Harmonian as they were.  Sarah's familiar presence was his only solace.

            "I understand, Master Luc."  She hoped her words would soothe him.  Whether he truly appreciated her presence or not, Luc never said.  But Sarah did not expect that of him.  As long as she had known him, it had always been easier for him to express his negative emotions than his positive ones.  He had a difficult time accepting love and friendship.  He expressed himself through his actions rather than his words.  Sarah could relate to this feeling well enough herself.  She was timid about these things.  Life had taught her to guard her heart carefully.  After all, if one's own mother could hand one away to strangers without looking back, who was one to trust?

            "Thank you."  His tired smile was sincere, but swiftly covered by his weathered, old mask.  "In any case, you can always ask Albert and Yuber to accompany you if you don't feel comfortable going alone.  I'm giving them orders to stay here and await my next commands."

            "I know," she said.  She smiled, for his sake.  There was no chance that she would ask for their accompaniment.  It was a short enough trip, merely down from their lodgings at the inn to a nearby teashop to speak with a certain mercenary Luc was interested in possibly employing.  The man might be dangerous- his reputation certainly marked him as such- but Sarah thought it unlikely that he would try anything overly rash in the midst of so many people.  She markedly disliked the company of Yuber and for some reason she could not quite put her finger on, Albert outside of the presence of Luc also made her feel uncomfortable.  She would feel calmer, not to mention more in control, on her own, but there was nothing to be gained in telling Master Luc any of this.

            She walked her most beloved master to the door.  She sent him off with a small, tight wave, her hand held close to her body even as she shook it for his sake.  At times like this it was easy to imagine she was acting as his wife.  That was what she had done often back in the quiet haven of Campanella- pretended that she was Luc's wife.  Some people had actually thought she was.  She had done nothing to disabuse them of the notion.

            Luc did not turn around.  He did not see her wave, so he certainly did not wave back.  Sarah didn't mind any of this.  It was typical of him.  He had set his sights on a lofty goal.  This was no time, in matters big or small, to be gazing back at what he left behind.  ...still, a part of her wished he would.

            It took a while to tidy things up around their temporary lodgings.  That ate up most of the time until the scheduled meeting.  As the appointed hour approached, Sarah stopped in front of the mirror to make sure her hair was neat enough after all that work to be in a decent state for a professional meeting, picked up her small satchel carrying what Master Luc considered to be the necessary paperwork should the so-called "Man of Fire" decide to sign on with them, and said an abrupt goodbye to Yuber and Albert.  They were sitting together at the table.  Albert was studying a map and taking notes.  Yuber was playing a solitary game of cards with a rather disquieting black deck.  Part of her wanted to ask where he had picked up such a devilish-looking thing, but a wiser part of her told her not to ask.  "I'm going out."

            "To see about that mercenary?" Albert inquired after her turned back.

            "Indeed," she enlightened him, moving on without so much as a twist of her neck back in his direction.  She could hear Yuber snicker at the cold nature of her response, but even the possibility of shared laughter at Albert's expense brought her no joy.  Yuber laughed at Albert all the time.  He laughed, in his own mostly mirthless way, at all of them; at all mortals.  While Albert's motives were more circumspect (Yuber was, at least, fairly transparent), Yuber was the one Sarah hated more.

            The door closed behind her, in a manner she would describe as pleasantly secure.  She could not hear nor see the two comrades she had left behind any longer.  She bustled away into the busy crowds of the city.  The man she was heading off to meet, no matter how rude or grubby a mercenary he might turn out to be, could not possibly be more offensive to her senses than these two had become.

 

            The man in question had arrived before Sarah.  He checked his pocket watch one last time to be sure he was early.  He considered punctualness to be an important virtue.  If he wanted to continue to regard himself as a gentleman, it was vital that he continue to make every effort to live as one.  He held all his behavior up to his own personal standard.  In some areas he was more apt to impressing himself than others, but overall, he generally lived up to his own expectations.

            He knew he was to meet a woman here at the White Birch, a woman named Sarah, but what she looked like he had not been told.  The letter of interest he had received had been vague- deliberately, he assumed.  The man who was inquiring sounded as if he had genuine reasons for proceeding with caution.  Even before they had met through pen and paper, news of this Masked Bishop had rung the bells of curiosity in Solf J. Kimblee's mind.  There was an element of mystery around him, and of power, and of raw ambition.  The ambition was the part that meant the most to Kimblee.  The only sort of master he would serve, beside himself, was one with the ability to grant him nearly free reign in carrying out his commands.  One who would turn a blind eye to the less savory aspects of Kimblee's own nature.  ...There were reasons he could not live in the capital anymore.  There were reasons he did not live as part of the merchant class he had been born to either.  He was a complicated man.  He would admit as much himself.

            The bell on the door jangled for the twelfth time since he had taken a seat at this particular corner table- the one he had promised to sit at for ease of identification in his letter.  With all that his would-be employer had withheld in his missive, Kimblee had been left apprehensive about revealing too much of his own nature on paper.  Did the Masked Bishop have reason to believe his correspondence might be monitored?  Kimblee had not survived as long as he had in the rough and tumble passages of the Harmonian underworld by taking chances.  He had given his real name and picked a time and location convenient for the client.  That was the most he was willing to do.

            He peeked over at the doorway out of the corner of one golden yellow eye.  Of the twelve customers who had arrived after him, seven had been male, disqualifying them from the running in his internal contest of, "How long will it take for the Masked Bishop's assistant to arrive?"  He had almost risen to greet the eleventh customer as she, a dark-skinned native Calerian, had headed directly toward his position for a yard and a half before turning away to surprise an elderly woman at a table nearby with a hug from behind.  According to his watch it was now precisely one minute after the time they had agreed on through the mail.

            The twelfth customer after him was another woman, a pale one, who stood stiff and still as a doll.  He had his dignity to think of.  He did not rise prematurely this time.  He would wait and see what she did.  Looking her over, he did think he could imagine her a "Sarah," but that was nothing but a baseless hunch.  Hunches were of more value in his business than in most, but this was no time to let his imagination run wild.

            "Excuse me," she spoke with her ice-water eyes precisely centered on his face, "Are you Mr. Solf J. Kimblee?"

            What were the odds that this was anyone but the bishop's Sarah?  Kimblee rose elegantly and doffed his hat.  "Indeed I am.  And you are Sarah?  It's a pleasure to meet you."  He stepped carefully aside to pull out the other chair for her.  "Please, have a seat."

            "Thank you."  His manners, at least, were exemplary (particularly when compared to the average mercenary one met around this area).  Sarah settled herself into the chair and set her bag in her lap.  "Thank you," she repeated herself, "For being available for such a prompt meeting."  It seemed a bit sarcastic to think him also for being on time.

            "So," he set himself back down, "Let's talk business."

            "Let's."  Sarah tried to control her curious eyes from hanging too long on the advanced fire runes visible on each of his palms.  They were supplemented with peculiar designs tattooed in indigo ink.  What did that mean?  There were words too, around the circles, and she felt, innately, that the letters were Sindar.  She shivered, though warmly dressed.  The quake resonated through her skin and on into her blood and her bones.  She would not have taken Mr. Kimblee for a Sindar descendant based on his overall coloration (he struck her as a rather standard Upper-Second Class Harmonian), but appearances ultimately served as little more than masks.  Who was she to say it could not be pale hair dyed to a more misleading shade?  Who was she to say that one trickle of the old blood wasn't enough to endow a man with the mystic ancestry of the Sindar?  She bore the image as easily as many others from her natal valley, but she was alone among those she had known in exhibiting the abilities willed to her by through her blood.  One drop and random chance- that was all it took.

            "Your master, the so-called 'Masked Bishop,'" Kimblee continued, proving himself a more eager talker than Sarah, "It seems he's the man of the hour out west these days.  So it leads me to wondering...I have a reputation myself, so I see how he could have heard of me, but what does such a fine, up and coming gentleman want with little old me?"

            To Sarah, this smacked of false modesty, but she wasn't going to call him on it.  What difference did it make as long as he could perform according to their specifications?

  

  1. When, and if, you officially agree to take part in some maneuvers with our faction, I can make further information available to you."
  



            While, for the most part, Sarah found Kimblee's face unremarkable, she did admit to herself that his smiling eyes were somehow mesmerizing.  If she stared too long into those rings of gold, she imagined he could convince her anything.  Did he know anything of the art of hypnosis?  She wouldn't be surprised.  Everything about him, from his manners to his dress, struck her as exceedingly studied.  His eyes though, however he used them, were nothing more than a part of how he had been born.  Perhaps golden eyes could also be a sign of Sindar heritage.  She would research this in the future if she were given a chance.

            "Hmm," he pursed his lips.  "So vague, so mysterious.  Did you plan it this way solely for the sake of drawing me in?  I have to admit, my interest is piqued.  I would like to work for this Masked Bishop.  I think it will prove beneficial for both him and me.

            "Oh," he interjected, just as Sarah was about to open her mouth to ask how, exactly, Kimblee believed his work for Luc would benefit him, "You're going to ask me now what it is I want.  I can see from the look on your face that I've guessed correctly."  Sarah frowned slightly.  There was a touch of Albert in this man.  Narcissism.  He was more smug than she would've liked, but she supposed any man who worked alone, meanwhile accomplishing the results Kimblee did, was bound to be somewhat smug.  "Allow me to answer before you even have to ask.  It's a common enough question."

            "Please," she prompted dryly.  "Just get on with it," she thought.  There was too much needless artifice in all this.  In that respect, she found he had some commonality with what little she had seen of Bishop Sasarai.

            "Fine."  He folded his hands, hiding his runes and tattoos from her view.  "The fact of the matter is: I don't care much for money or fame.  For monetary payment, I only expect for my working expenses to be paid, as well as a small amount of compensation, which serves as my standard hiring rate.  As far as fame or recommendations or what have you, nothing is necessary.  From the way in which we've conducted all our transactions thus far, I've already gleaned that your bishop has an incredible need for secrecy and subterfuge in the carrying out of his mission, whatever it might be.  I don't need any testimony from him, written or spoken.  I handle all my publicity on my own.  I have no need to gallivant about telling all and sundry of my deeds.  ...Or misdeeds, depending on the point of view of the one hearing them, I suppose.

            I have secrets enough of my own.  I assure you- I will promise in blood if your master feels the situation requires it- I will keep yours just as well as I keep mine."

            "Yes.  I understand all of this, and based on what you wrote to us, Mr. Kimblee, I rather expected it.  However, you still haven't spoken of what it is you actually want.  Or, perhaps I think it might be rather- what you will get out of the experience?"  Sarah hoped he was not purposely leading her around in circles.  It would not do.  She was having trouble deciding whether he was someone she could tolerate or not.

            "Indeed.  Forgive me.  I have an overwhelming tendency toward loquacity."

That, Sarah thought, was quite the understatement.

            "What it is, Miss Sarah," Kimblee leaned closer to her, across the table, "The thing I'm looking for- it's a chance to let loose my powers and freely engage in my art.  To you I may be nothing more than a man for hire, the so-called "Man of Fire," but in my own eyes, I'm first and foremost an artist, the "Crimson Lotus," shall we say."

            An artist.  That self-description went a long way in explaining his attitude.  Sarah nodded, encouraging him to go on.  While the gist of things was becoming clear to her, she had not yet heard all she felt it was necessary to hear.  There was, for instance, the nature of his art.

            "I specialize in fire magic, as I'm sure you might have noticed, or heard, or figured out in some other manner, based on my name.  But it's not mere fire-making that I consider my art.  It's explosions.  To be perfectly candid, I live to perfect my technique of creating explosions."

            "That's interesting."  She wasn't lying.  Sarah truly did find this to be a captivating trinket of information.  A person's goals said a lot about how they wanted to live their life and how they would handle themselves in a variety of situations.  This was how Sarah gauged Kimblee's future conduct were he to join up with their group: loyal and able to keep secrets as long as there was action (and probably easier to keep a firm reign on in the heat of battle than Yuber who appeared to listen only to Albert), but likely to turn tail and run if it looked like his own skin were in danger.  As long as he did not run too soon, or as long as he did not say anything if he ran early, he would fit into their plans.  She would not say that it sounded good, but it did sound doable.

            "Any thoughts?  Can I order some coffee for myself, and perhaps something for you, before we move on to discuss more sensitive information?"  His cunning eyes darted away to alight on a waitress moving across the room roughly in their direction.

            Oh, so his thoughts did soften and run to trivial things from time to time.  Sarah found she was smiling when she answered him.  When had that happened?  "Certainly.  Feel free."

            He waved the waitress over with an enthusiastic waggle of his fingers and a friendly grin.  As she approached, he spoke to Sarah again, "Are you sure you wouldn't like something?  It's my treat.  I tend to favor coffee, but they have excellent tea here, especially the Fatyl blends.  Cakes too."

            Fatyl, tea or otherwise, left a bitter taste in her mouth.  Sarah remembered the "High Priestess of Fatyl" all too well.  There were plenty of things in her life she would prefer, if not to forget, at least to disregard.  Fatyl's long-serving Bishop Kaeyani was one of them.  "That's a kind offer, Mr. Kimblee.  I suppose I won't turn you down."

            "Good morning!  What can I get for you?" the cheery waitress asked, holding a pencil and notepad out to scribble down their order.

            Kimblee nodded to Sarah, allowing her to speak first.  "I'd like a scone, please.  Blueberry if you have it.  And a cup of tea.  Jasmine."

            "None of that mixed Fatyl stuff for you, eh?" Kimblee remarked as the waitress informed Sarah that they did indeed have blueberry scones and wrote the order down.

            "And for you, sir?"

            "Just a cup of coffee.  Whatever kind you have brewing at the moment is fine, as long as it's not brewed too thin.  I'm not picky."

            "The Obellan stuff they have on this morning is suppose to be particularly good," the waitress said.

            "Excellent."  Sarah judged the pleasure he took in this knowledge as genuine.  He might live for his art, but this was no Yuber she sat with, who loved death alone.  If Mr. Kimblee had an appreciation for the little things, it showed his humanity.  That he found a certain joy in living.  She could not imagine that his example would show Master Luc that life was worth another try, but she could not help but wish.  It didn't matter who convinced him.  Sarah would walk the path to any conclusion her beloved desired, but that did not stop her from choosing- if only it were her place to choose- to live.

            "You have a serious mind, don't you, Sarah?" Kimblee quirked an eyebrow up at her, punctuating his lazy smile.

            Sarah looked again, long and calm, into those golden eyes.  She spoke the truth, as she had for their entire meeting, "I suppose I do, but aren't you the same?"

 

 

 **In Amestris, with Blood of Ice...**

 

            "That one there- see, look- that's the ice princess," Jenny Hart explained to her superior officer.  Just like the pale woman, Major Kimblee had a reputation.  But Hart was used to his dangerous eccentricities and finicky needs by this point.  The enemy you know, and all that.

            "What's her name?" Kimblee asked.  Perhaps he had heard of her before but just hadn't been provided with an opportunity to match her moniker to her face.  He paid attention to word around the camp about his fellow State Alchemists.  They interested him- how they worked, what sort of people they were, if they shared his understanding of the world.  Even a loner, it seemed, could not help but look for the companionship of a like mind.

            As he gazed at the woman, he began to wonder what sort of efforts she had to take not to burn to a crisp in this desert.  Her skin was as white as porcelain.  Her hair was like frozen corn silk.  Her eyes were cold and blue.  He pegged her as better suited to a Briggs-esque environment than Ishval.  Then again, most of them were not well-suited to Ishval.  She walked with her head held high, silent and aloof.  He liked that posture, that pace.  She wasn't like Mustang or Armstrong- it didn't sting her at all to be viewed as an outsider or a freak.  She might not smile like he did, but she was a proud human weapon.

            "Sarah," Hart told him, "Sarah something.  Give me a moment more and I'll remember it."

            "What about her other name?"  That would be more telling.  It was the second, state-given, name that bore much of one's reputation.

            "Ice Blooded.  She's the Ice Blood Alchemist."

            Yes, yes, he knew that name.  If Isaac McDougal could be said to have a knack for ice, Sarah Capelle's skill could only be described as a gift.  Given the ability to lay her hands on a person, she could freeze the blood in their veins.  Kimblee wondered what it would be like to work with her.  How would the shattering of a body differ if the liquids were frozen within?  He imagined it would be cleaner- like breaking a glass.  He approved of that.  He always hated it when he got blood all over his clothes.  Was there any chance that they could be deployed together?  He would love an opportunity to work alongside her.

            He rose from his resting place in the shade of the supply tent and headed in the direction Sarah had gone, toward the makeshift eating area.  Jenny started up after him, but he raised a hand to halt her advance.  "Thanks, Hart, but I want to meet Miss Ice Blood on my own.  Alchemist to alchemist."  He didn't turn to look back at the young woman, but he kept on smiling.  "You understand, don't you?"

            "Uh, yes, sir," Hart sat down again reluctantly.  Once he was gone there would be no point in her being here, but instead of bothering to explain that although she was getting up she had not planned on following him, she stuck to her policy of crossing the major as infrequently as possible.  She watched his sturdy back as he walked away to the mess tent.  This Sarah Capelle had caught his interest, and when Kimblee's mind was drawn to something, he pursued it diligently to his desired outcome.  What would come of it?  Jenny Hart knew only that this was a query time (or Kimblee) alone could answer.

 

            Sarah was one of those State Alchemists, like Kimblee, who ate entirely alone most days.  They were cut off almost completely from the enlisted men and their fellow officers alike.  The only possibility of fellowship for them existed within the ranks of the other alchemists.  Not all State Alchemists were cut from the same cloth.  Mustang, for instance, had begun to find the acceptance he had longed for within the ranks.  It probably helped that he had not been mobilized merely for the war- he had been a military cadet to start out with.  In any case, camaraderie with the everyday sorts was not something all of them desired.

            Kimblee took things slowly, precisely.  Ice Blood had didn't have anywhere to be in a hurry.  He picked up a tray and stepped up to fill it with the usual rations for lunch- beans, a roll, all that.  It was fine.  The only part whose quality concerned him was the coffee.  He wasn't a picky eater, but he had some opinions about the proper way of preparing coffee.

            He looked across the tent at Sarah.  She was still alone.  She was looking into her coffee mug with an oddly skeptical glance.  Apparently she had some opinions about coffee too.

            "Is this seat taken?"  He knew the answer, but a certain measure of politeness was his way of doing things.  He waited until he was faced with his enemies until he showed his sharp teeth.

            Sarah looked up at him from under heavy lids and thick, pale lashes.  He was smiling his gentleman's smile, but her expression was cold and unimpressed.  He wondered if the war had hardened her or if she had arrived in Ishval already this stiff and locked away within her shell.  "No.  Sit wherever you like," she said.  Her words were perfectly measured.

            Seeing her from a distance, Kimblee had thought his perception of her as extraordinarily still and stripped of extraneous speech and action was biased, a result of his having spent too much time daydreaming up his own interpretations of the behavior of his colleagues.  However, now that he found himself mere inches from her side, he found his mental picture of the Ice Blood Alchemist was not far from the mark.  It was no wonder she could turn bodies into blocks of ice.  She was already one herself.  How did she feel, he wondered, when she killed?  She seemed so serious.  He liked her already.

            Sarah kept eating.  She didn't say anything else to him.  Kimblee was not uncomfortable in the silence.  It was merely funny.  Most people were not like this.  "Ice Blood Alchemist," he thought, "What things go on in your head?"  She had neat manners, but she kept squinting into her coffee with a jaundiced frown.  At last he chose to make this oddity the subject of a conversation between them.  "Is there something wrong with your coffee?"

            "It doesn't taste the same today as it tasted yesterday.  Or this morning.  Anyway, I prefer tea."  That was all.  She set the cup back down with a clink and carried on with her meal.

            "Hmm.  Now that I think on it, I haven't seen a drop of tea myself since arriving at the front.  Of course, if one is resourceful, one can acquire anything through the proper channels."  How would that sound to her?  To make a deal with someone, one had to possess, or have a means of acquiring, something desired by one's opponent.

            "Of course," Sarah softly repeated his words.  If she _was_ interested, she made a good show of nonchalance.  She struck him as something like a fictional automaton.  She would be a steam-powered one, fueled by her favored tea.  He hoped there would never be a day when machines would replace men on the field of battle.  Only when tens of thousands of men were wagering their lives did war have any true meaning.

            If he wanted to continue on in conversation with her, Kimblee could see that he was going to have to supply most of the words.  Well, if that was what was necessary to make a connection with the frosty young woman, he was content with it.  "Major Capelle, I've yet to have the pleasure of formally being introduced to you.  The name's Solf J. Kimblee.  The Crimson Lotus Alchemist."

            He offered her his hand.  A spark of curiosity flashed in her wintry eyes as she accepted the handshake.  The close-up view of her hands was similarly revealing for him.  On each of her hands, on the three central fingers, Sarah wore silver rings, intricately carved with alchemic symbols.  When her palms were placed together with the rings correctly aligned, Kimblee assumed they would form a sort of circle made of circles- the conduit of her special power.

            "Sarah Capelle.  As you already know.  The Ice Blood Alchemist."  Her self-introduction was bland enough, but thoughts of alchemy seemed to set her mind afire and she was moved to ask after his second name.  "Are your explosions so flowery as your name implies?"

            "The best ones are."  His smile turned a bit brighter.  He loved to talk about his art.  "Each time I set foot on the battlefield, I'm working toward the day when each act of alchemy will be the masterpiece I long for it to be."

            "That's a nice view to take of things."  There was no disapproval in her tone.  She pushed away her tray with what few crumbs were left on it and set her hands on the table in a way that left her rings more clearly visible to Kimblee.  If she would allow him the opportunity, he would love to take them from her icicle fingers and examine them properly.  In return, he would let her see his tattoos of course.  He believed in equivalent exchange.

            It struck him as sudden after her long quiet, but now Sarah took the lead, making the inquiry he had been prepared to ask soon himself.  "Where are you going to be deployed next?  I want to see you in action."

            "The Kanda District.  ...As long as they don't change my orders."

            "Oh, how fortuitous.  So am I."  She _was_ like him, he thought.  She was only an automaton in camp.  He played at being an ordinary person for the sake of experiences, while Sarah refused to waste energy on a friendly facade.  Only the battlefield, only her art made her feel alive.

            "I'm looking forward to it already then."

            "The same," she agreed.  She rose, picking up her tray to turn it over for washing.  However, after only a few steps, she turned and looked back at Kimblee.  Cautiously, with her voice pitched low, she made one rather human plea, "Mr. Crimson Lotus...if you _do_ happen to stumble across some tea, you wouldn't mind saving a bit for me would you?  It would surely brighten my spirits."

            Yes, human after all.  Kimblee resisted the urge to laugh.  "Yes, I will, Miss Ice Blood."


End file.
